


Thrilled

by ShannaraIsles



Series: Shannara's Avvar 'Verse [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Avvar AU, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Prompt Fic, Sex, Teasing, Tumblr Prompt, Vaginal Sex, Welcome Home Sex, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 11:29:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12630030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannaraIsles/pseuds/ShannaraIsles
Summary: Prompt time for some Avvar AU :D How about... Cullen gets hurt during one of his hunting trips and Rory is all upset about it. Sexy times ensue ;) Perhaps with Rory on top?- from the lovely Kagetsukai via tumblr.Set about a month after the events of Kindled.





	Thrilled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kagetsukai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kagetsukai/gifts).



> Note - now she's in Frosthold, Rory's speaking Avvar. So Avvar is depicated as usual, Common will be in _italics_.

The hunt had been successful, by the sound of things. The roaring cheer of men and women left behind in Frosthold while the hunting party were about their business signified a good return, at the very least. Rory felt the little knot in her stomach untangle itself as she carefully decanted a warming potion into the vials set aside for that purpose. Perhaps she should go out and greet them with the others, but she was busy. _Very_ busy - the Avvar of Frosthold had a basic understanding of healing, but they were agog at the various potions and poultices she could concoct. Since arriving in Frosthold just a month before, she had found herself installed as an assistant to the augur - a sort of mage, she’d discovered, who held the official position in the clan, though there were several other mages scattered through the mountainous hold. Ria had been taken under the wing of the oldest midwife in the village. They both had position here among these strange people; position given without resentment or suspicion. They had skills the Avvar needed, so the Avvar let them practice without interference. It was ... a rather wonderful feeling, on the whole.

Capping the last bottle with a thick cork, she wiped her hands on the nearest clean cloth, turning to find the augur watching her from the doorway with an understated grin. Dorian, that was his name - a surprisingly dapper individual who wouldn't have been out of place in a Tevinter marketplace by all accounts, possessed of a rather magnificent physique and a thick, tailored mustache he was inordinately proud of.

"Are you not coming to greet the returning heroes?" he asked her, patient enough to wait as she carefully dissected his question and translated it for herself. It took a moment for her to do that, and to put her own reply into Avvar.

"I am now," she answered, the language still feeling thick on her tongue. But she was far better after a month of being surrounded by it, despite the occasional fumble for the correct words. "Did you wait for me?"

"Cullen would have my spleen if I did not escort you everywhere," he informed her in amusement, pushing from his lean to offer her a hand. "I would have thought you'd be desperately excited to see him again after so long. This way, little red."

As she followed the augur out into the snow, tucking her new bear-fur mantle close about her shoulders against the chill, Rory felt herself smile. Cullen was home. He'd been gone for three days, with Rylen and Alistair and Cassandra - the three of them gone toward the north with about ten others to hunt down a few big beasts to bring home for fresh meat in the midst of winter.

She was a little ashamed of the way she'd cried herself to sleep that first night of his absence, missing his warmth, his arms, the gentle way he'd kiss her temple before settling in to sleep himself. It wasn't the sex she'd been craving while he'd been gone, although that had yet to be anything but _phenomenal_. It was his gentleness, the way he could calm his wildness to wrap her close; the way his fingers stroked over her hair as she slept; the way he watched her in the mornings, whiskey-bright eyes amused and enthralled by the way she skipped over the cold stone floor in search of clothing to shut out the bite of the cold. She missed the tender way his expression seemed to change when he met her eyes across the crowded hold, the way his attention faltered from whoever else was speaking as his watchful eyes followed her about her business. The way they could spend a day barely seeing one another, yet fall into an easy rhythm together back in the longhouse they shared with his brother, sisters, and nephew. Words didn't seem to be needed so much when they were alone; feelings were shared through touch, with a look, with the need for one another that did not seem to be abating. She truly was captured, a willing prisoner, already dreading the day when she might be told it was time to go.

She could see Ria on the edge of the gathering in the hold's heart, feeling her smile deepen as Rylen abruptly stepped from the crowd and hoisted his own captive bride high in the air to kiss her thoroughly, heedless of the friendly, raucous comments around him. Rory snorted with laughter as Ria balled a fist and thumped him soundly on the top of his head, not really needing to watch to know that he was laughing as he set her down and bowed politely before being allowed to kiss her again. That was a relationship that caused no end of gossip in the hold; the Avvar enjoyed the contentious little blonde who had forced her way among them for the sake of her friend. The friend, they were still a little uncertain of - Rory was a good healer, yes, but she lacked the open fire of Ria. She was quiet and small among rowdy giants; quick to learn their language at least passably, but seemingly reluctant to be as uninhibited as they wished. Still, they saw something in her, the way Cullen had seen something. She was as much theirs as she was her own.

And there he was. Her golden-haired lion in the crowd of his fellows, whiskey-warm eyes sweeping those gathered around them until he found ... _her_. And nothing could stop him from reaching her, strong arms shoving sisters and brother and friends out of his way as he forced his way through the cheerful group to catch her against his chest as she laughed at his eagerness. Feet dangling, she curled her arms about his neck, burying her face in the familiar fur of his mantle, breathing him in ... feeling his lips brush against the beating pulse in her neck, his breath on her skin, the trickle of tension leaving his limbs as he held her close.

"Rory," she heard as his lips ghosted over the curve of her ear. "I am home."

That soft growl of her name sent a delicious shiver down her spine. She knew he felt it, too - his arms tightened about her for a brief moment as she sighed happily against his neck. All too soon, though, he was setting her back onto her feet, his fingers curling to her jaw as he met her eyes with a promise not quite hidden in his own. He was home, and they had days to catch up on. Her cheek tilted into his touch, her eyes almost closing ... and she caught sight of something that chilled her blood.

Four angry gashes across his ribs, oozing blood over the red and white war paint that was the only armor he would countenance wearing. Shock rippled through her as she raised her hand, fingertips hovering over the injury he was carrying as though it was nothing.

"You're blooding," she accused fiercely, ignoring the faint chuckle that came as she got her wording wrong.

"Bleeding," he corrected, reaching to take her hand. She slapped his hand away, scowling as she considered the wounds.

"Did you not put anything on these?" she demanded, raising her eyes to glare at him. _Why am I angry? He's not ill, he's not dying. He's just ... that's a lot of blood._ Blood that was now staining her clothing, thanks to their embrace.

"What need is there to tend a wound when I am coming home to you?" Cullen countered mildly, his kissable lips twitching toward a smile as her scowl deepened.

"You are a-a ..." She struggled to find the right word in Avvar, and gave up. _"A bronto-humping idiot!"_

A guffaw from behind her declared that Dorian had understood her insult perfectly, but Cullen's expression suggested he only knew he had been insulted. He raised a brow at her, a feline tilt of his head doing certain things to her insides that she wasn't ready for. She waved a finger in his face.

"Don't give me that look," she warned. "You got hurt. That is bad."

Her hand seized his firmly as she turned to walk toward the longhouse that was currently home, tugging for him to follow her. There was a moment of resistence, mostly punctuated by the teasing comments from around him, and he followed, calling back something she didn't quite catch, but seemed to be along the lines of telling a particular someone to go and soak his head in something unpleasant. The answer called after them went over her head, mired in the intricacies of slang she hadn't yet learned to decipher, but judging by the surprising flush on Cullen's face as they entered the longhouse, it was definitely something suggestive.

"I am not so hurt," he attempted to assure her, but Rory wasn't having it.

"You were away for three days," she reminded him. "You come back bloodi- bleeding, and say you are not hurt? That is a lie. Sit." She pointed imperiously at the bed, turning to rummage for her pack of supplies.

She could _feel_ his eyes on her back as she pulled out bandages and bottles. No doubt this wasn't the welcome home he had envisioned. It wasn't the welcome home she had envisioned, either, but then, he had promised her that he would not be in any danger. Instead of falling into each other's arms as she had to admit she had wanted, he was bleeding. And not just a little cut, oh no - four large gashes over his ribs that could only have come from a bear. Gashes he hadn't even cleaned, much less treated, because for some reason he thought the healer he had in his bed could deal with anything.

"You are angry," she heard him say quietly.

"Yes, I am angry," she informed the bowl she was pouring clean water into. "You're hurt, and bleeding, and I was so worried about you all the time you were away, and I can't fix death, you-you ... stupid bear man."

His huffed laughter did nothing for her temper. "You care for me."

"No, I don't." _Any more enormous lies you'd like to tell, Rory? How about declaring that you're actually a man?_

She turned back to find him directly behind her, those beautiful eyes soft with quiet amazement as he watched her point toward the bed once again. "You care for me," he said again, his voice low with warm delight at this discovery. "You missed me."

"Of course I bloody missed you, it was cold at night," she shot back stubbornly. "Sit down, Cullen."

With a smile tugging at his scarred lip, he did as he was told, shrugging off the harness and mantle that adorned his bare torso to allow her access to the ugly marks on his golden skin. Huffing under his fond regard, she thumped down beside him, raising his arm into the custody of his other hand so she could set to cleaning the gashes left on her man. _My man_ , her thoughts reflected as she wiped away old blood and paint, wincing each time he stiffened at the sting of her ministrations. _Had him for all of one month, and he's mine._ Her mind unhelpfully replayed the night she had finally had him for the first time; the way he had claimed her, declared her to be his, allowed her to declare him as her own. _It's only one year, Rory_ , she reminded herself. _Unless he miraculously falls in love with you, don't get your hopes up._

As she twisted away to gather up a poultice pot and the bandages, he shifted on the bed, his arm rising over her head to stroke his fingertips down her spine. Even through the thickness of her mantle, she felt the heat of his touch, the bow of her back deepening as she caught her breath.

"Stop it," she told him pointedly. "I'm not done yet."

"You care for me," he repeated once more, that cocky smile of his brightening his face as she utterly failed to deny it this time.

His palm smoothed over her back as she placed a pad over the ugly injury, knowing full well she would have to get close to secure the bandages. And close she got, wrapping her arms about his chest to wrap the bandages in place, both her hands too busy to keep him from pressing his palm to her back, to prevent the push of his other hand into the loose waves of her hair as her cheek brushed his shoulder. The callused fingertips that had touched every part of her body teased through the red fall that crowned her head, trying to distract her from working on him, even as he enjoyed watching the way she forced herself _not_ to be distracted. Warm breath caressed her brow as the curl of his arm about her tightened, pulling her closer even as she tied the bandage in place, filling her vision with nothing but him, reminding her without anything more than a gentle touch what she had been without for three long nights.

"Cull-"

The hot mouth she had missed caught her own, the barest brush of lip to lip stealing her voice, igniting the kindled embers he had placed in her months ago with a single look on the riverbank. The flicker of his tongue at the seam she held closed parted her with a breath, her touch softening against his skin as the healer melted into the bride he had claimed, wanted, _missed_ in his absence. He all but purred into her as she allowed him to lower her defenses, to file away the sharp edge of her worried anger, enveloping her in a kiss she had dreamed of on those long cold nights without him. He pressed her closer, hard against his side, and hissed at the pressure of her body against the painful injury she had only just dressed.

She drew back, her brow furrowing as she looked down at the bandages, grateful that they were not showing any sign of the blood from beneath. As Cullen's hand tightened on her again, she shook her head, laying her palm flat against his chest.

"No," she told him, moving to rise. "You're hurt."

"I will hurt more without you," he countered, catching her hips before she could step away.

His knees nudged between her own as he drew her closer, the tousled gold of his hair falling back from his temple as he tilted his head to look up at her, a soft plea in his gaze against the hesitation in her own. She didn't want to hurt him, but ... that desire, that need, was clamoring for notice, wanting to be given voice, and she couldn't hide it from him. He knew her; knew the subtle nuances of her expression, the way her body softened in the moments before her mind gave in. And he responded to those nuances almost before she made the decision for herself.

Sultry heat poured through her as he pressed his face between the soft hang of her breasts, warming the wool of her dress and shift with his breath as his hands began to smooth their way down over the rounded curve of her rear, fingers rippling in their passage over her thighs. Material bunched in his grasp, the hem of her skirt raised high enough for those wicked hands of his to dip beneath, to trace the line of the ribbons that held her stockings in place and reach higher, to the naked swell of her bottom. She bit her lip, stifling a soft groan as the crackling strength of her own desire flared in answer to his touch, her hands rising to comb her fingers through his hair, caressing her own hunger over the broad expanse of the taut, toned shoulders and back she knew by touch alone.

"Rory," he breathed, raising his head ... and she answered without needing words, her own head dipping to gift him the kiss he asked for.

As lips touched, caressed, battled for dominance in a fight neither could win, the tender roughness of his callused fingers hooked about the back of her parted thighs, tugging to bring her down onto the waiting platform of his own, never once leaving the warmth beneath her skirt even as the wool bunched about his elbows. Her knees found a home on the furs either side of his hips, her gasp devoured by the hunger of his lips as he dragged her close enough to settle snugly where he wanted her to be. The hardening press of his own desire rubbed through the hide of his pants to tease her aching core as she moaned into his mouth, ready for him before he even thought to test her, always ready for her barbarian lover and his gloriously tender loving care.

"We ... you're injured, we ..." She just couldn't get the words to come out, wanting to protect him, look after him on the one hand, and desperate to have everything he was hinting toward and more on the other.

His lips curled in that familiarly knowing smile of his as he caught her mouth in another kiss. "A warrior," he murmured, "needs his woman."

"I am not here just to be your-your ... _blasted fucking Avvar_ ... tension bleeder," she fumbled, shivering as he dragged his fingers down her thighs, raising his hands to undo the clasp of her mantle and push the warm fur from her shoulders.

"Stress reliever," he corrected, tilting his head to nip at the underhang of her jaw, fingers tugging the laces of her dress loose at her back as her own kneaded at his shoulders.

The sheer inappropriateness of a language lesson while he was busily removing the layers that hid her from him stung, earning him a smart slap between the shoulder-blades from her flat hand. He laughed at her response, the sound turning to a growl as his teeth turned against her neck, her body quivering at the threatened danger that she knew would never be turned against her. Again his hands gripped the wool that covered her, rumpled cloth lifting from her skin, dress and shift both peeled up and over her head, tossed aside like so much rubbish to let his intoxicating gaze absorb the pale, freckled beauty that was his chosen redhead all over again. She had learned by now not to cover herself; such an action only resulted in a longer examination of her form without even a suggestion toward being touched, his very personal form of torture reserved for those times when he felt she needed to _know_ how arresting the sight of her naked body was to him. Even now, he simply gazed at her until she fidgeted, eyes that had seen every part of her most intimately skating with tender desire over the curves and valleys of her slender form.

Then he was moving, his hands skimming her sides, arms gathering her in close, swallowing her soft squeak as the roughness of his pants made firm contact with the delicate heat nestled between her thighs. She felt the growing hardness of him twitch in the confines of his clothing as he held her tight to him, felt the tension as his own strength in gripping her softer form sent ripples of pain through his injured side, and for the first time, she laid her hands against his shoulders, pushing to break the kiss, to ease the clinch, to draw her lips from his in breathless concern. To take control that he had not given her.

"You're in pain," she gasped as he clung to her. "You shouldn't -"

"I _need_ you," he growled in answer, pain and frustration mingling with the fervent desire in his lusty gaze as her fingertips stroked against his cheek. "Please, Rory ..."

Her thumb pressed against his lips as she held his gaze, unwilling to let him harm himself just to sate a need that could be postponed, no matter how urgent it felt. He nipped the pad, laving the tip of his tongue over her skin as his hands pressed to her rear, large palms cupping, kneading, pulling her hard against him as he ground against her, igniting the embers she had almost drawn under control again.

" _Please_ ," he whispered, the low tone of his voice throbbing in the grip of that hungry urge he had no wish to set aside. "I have missed my flame too much to care for petty hurts." His hips tilted again, grinding the growing press of his confined ardor into her, drawing a tender moan from her lips as the saturated hide slid against the aching bud of her clit. His lips found hers once more, softer, gentler, but no less demanding for that kinder manner. "Let me have you," he breathed into her as she shuddered in the band of his arms, her fingers curling to his shoulders as she fought against the urge to melt and surrender.

"Let _me_ have _you_ ," she whispered back to him, her hand rising to curl her fingers into the tousled gold of his curls, gripping tight to keep from him the kiss she knew would silence her before she could make her case.

Nose to nose, their gazes battled in sultry silence, skin chilled and warmed by turns with the coolness of winter's touch and the heat of the brazier's flames. Though he was the stronger of them, they had never quite matched wills in this way, and to her delight, Rory saw his expression change as he realised she was not going to back down on this. She knew he was loath to force his will over her, though he had the right in the eyes of his people's laws, but to see with her own eyes that reluctance made real, to see him back down and acquiesce to her will over his own ... it sent a thrumming thrill of something indefinably _theirs_ whistling through every nerve in her body. Her lips curved in a soft smile, rewarding his surrender with a kiss that anyone else would have called loving; a soft sharing of understanding before she moved to untangle herself from him once more.

He made a sound of loss as she rose from his lap, his hands reaching for her even as she bent to kiss him once more. She could never get enough of his mouth, his taste, the way he could narrow her world down to a single moment, a single feeling, with just the brush of his scarred lip over her own. As her tongue teased his, her teeth catching his lip just to hear him growl, feel him grin, her fingers made quick work of the lacings on his pants, releasing him from the tight wrappings. One palm pressed to his chest, urging him without words to lie back, unable to hold back a gasp as his fingers ghosted over the full curve of her breasts. There was that cocky grin she loved so much, illuminating his handsome features with cheeky warmth as he did as he was told, raising his hips to let her peel the hide from his limbs and drop his boots to one side.

He could not quite keep himself from reaching for her, needing to have some measure of control even now, and this, she allowed, wanting his touch as his hands skimmed over her thighs, up to her hips, to her waist, guiding her as she knelt on the bed with him. He groaned at the skimming sweep of her fingers down his chest, the light touch doing nothing to ease his raging desire as those taut muscles quivered in her wake. Lips found lips as she swung her leg over him, bracing herself against the bed above his head as her kisses teased and taunted, letting him taste her smile over and over as his fingers flexed over the soft flesh of her thighs, one hand rising to cup the swell of her breast. _Needing_ to hear her breath catch in her throat, feel her body jerk to his touch, taste her moan as his hips rose to stroke the firm length of his hard cock through the wet velvet of her apex. She shuddered over him, her fingers gripping the fur beneath his head as her hand slid down between them to guide him inside her.

Cullen's head fell back with a strangled growl as they joined together, his fingers tightening at her hip, fighting not to thrust deep and hard to feel her slick heat clamp around his fevered flesh. He felt ... there were no words for how this carnal joining felt to her, this sensual merging that drove her to greater heights, teased her with the promise of more even without further motion. As she took him into her, her breath grew shallow, her eyes falling closed to savor that glorious feeling; that intimate understanding that her gentle barbarian was _home_. Slowly, she forced her hands to release the furs, to glide over his chest, golden skin and bandages and all, as she drew herself up, her back arching with undeniable pleasure at the feeling of him inside her, thick and throbbing, a primal call she was only too willing to answer.

His eyes glowed as he looked up at her, admiring the smooth paleness of his captured bride as she began to move to that sensual rhythm they knew together, forgetting any awkwardness under his eyes in the delicious rock of her hips, the brush of her skin to his, the sway of red hair over freckled shoulders. He had never allowed her to take control like this, and perhaps he might never allow it again, but for now, it seemed, he was more than content to be taken as he had so often taken her. He arched beneath her, restless with need yet unwilling to steal her moment so soon, callused hands reaching to caress slender thighs, soft skin, the enticing bounce of dusky-tipped breasts above him. Every touch drove her on, her hands laid light against his wrists as her head fell back, releasing a tender moan that bore his name and no other to the quiet rafters above.

But even the most restrained lover cannot always hold himself back. Cullen shifted suddenly, his thighs rising to support her tilting backside as he sat upright, enveloping her swaying form in the warm want of his arms to claim her mouth with a deep kiss that stole far more than her breath. Surrounded, captured, she willingly surrendered to this shift, her own arms curling about his broad shoulders, fingers teasing her nails across his scalp just to hear him growl, swallowing the feral sound with a curving grin as his hand pressed to the small of her back. It was his turn to lead, to guide her, maintaining the illusion even as he dragged her higher through that wanton dance, each minute touch, each subtle change in position a wild call to the flames inside. Voracious, that appetite undimmed, yet each movement, each longing groan, was soft and slow, a tender rise together to the moment when one, or both, would shatter in the other's arms.

That fall, when it came, was as gentle as an avalanche, as quiet as the holdbeast's roar, as all-consuming and shuddering as the rumble of the Mountain Father himself. Heedless of his injury, Cullen held her close to him, his face buried in her throat as he twitched within her, as she trembled around him, each of them clinging onto the one constant in this shifting, glorious eruption that it seemed only they could give one another. His breath laved hot and cool against her shining skin as he mumbled to her, incoherent words in a garble of Avvar and Common and something more ancient than both. She stroked her fingers over his shoulders, over his back, feeling the quivering aftermath ripple through her even as he threw himself back, bearing her with him in a laughing thump of bodies to furs in a tangle of limbs and traded kisses.

"My flame," he murmured against her lips, not eager to release her from his grasp nor to end those tender kisses too soon. Instinct made him roll her onto her back ... and a sudden hiss of pain stopped him in his tracks.

She blinked, her eyes going to the bandage on his side, where blood oozed through the pads set in place. She raised a brow, looking up at her mountain lion of a man who had been so certain he could ravish her easily while bleeding. Cullen's eyes narrowed despite the vague guilt in his pained expression.

"You're hurt," she pointed out yet again, her lips curved in a teasing smile. "You should have stayed still."

"Are you scolding me, wench?" he asked her, the tension easing from his face as the pain from that movement faded.

Rory laughed, rising up onto her elbows to kiss the tip of his nose, a small part of her purring at the possessive skim of his hand over her side. "Of course I am," she assured him. "Shut up and roll over, I need to change that bandage."

Cullen's expression flickered into the softer smile she was learning to understand as belonging to her alone. One arm curled beneath her back, urging her to roll over and lie against him as he settled onto his back, ignoring the bloody bandages for now. Strong fingers pushed into her hair, drawing her to his lips for a languid kiss that warmed her to her toes.

"Later," he murmured, teasing his fingertips down her spine. " _This_ is more important."


End file.
